


A Study In Disadvantages

by wicked_little_thing



Series: Just A Daydream Away [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Misses John, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_little_thing/pseuds/wicked_little_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John cuts himself off from everyone after Sherlock dies, struggling to forget what happened as he works himself ragged in his new job. As Sherlock works to eradicate Moriarty's network, he realizes he has more than one case to solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forgetting

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [FFN](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8444294/1/A-Study-in-Disadvantages).
> 
> Disclaimer: Hah, no.
> 
> No beta/Brit-picker, all mistakes are mine, and I'd appreciate it if you pointed them out if you find any. Don't forget to leave kudos, constructive criticism, etc!

_Don't you know you're everything I have?_  
 _..and I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight._

\---

For three years, John tried to forget.

He hadn't returned to 221B save one time (Was it days after it happened? A couple of weeks?), to simply collect the bare necessities. They were so bare, though, that he hadn't even needed a small suitcase. He'd taken what he had to and left; hadn't set foot in Baker Street since.

He hadn't been to New Scotland Yard. There was no point going there anymore. He hadn't been to Angelo's, or any other such restaurants. He hadn't been to St. Bart's.

He lived in Tower Hamlets now, in a small flat. By himself.

Before he figured out what he had to do, no matter how hard he tried, he'd see something, hear something, smell something, and it would trigger his memory, his _cursed_ memory, _why couldn't he just forget_ , and then he'd feel something.

It threatened to all but consume him, this feeling.

This _hatred_.

At first, everything and everyone was a mess. No, not a mess; it was more like the whole of London was in chaos. It was a huge scandal after all, so many truths wrapped up in a whopping big lie. Believing the lie because it was easier than wrapping their heads round the truth.

John hated them all.

So when Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Ella, everyone, even Sally, contacted John with condolences and all but threatened to drown him in faux sympathy, he ignored them. Because they had done this - destroyed a life John didn't know he needed. They had fuelled Moriarty's fire.

_Moriarty_. Just the name made John see red. He'd never been a violent man (outside his duties as a soldier), but he mused that if he ever came across this particular monster, this filth, he would make an exception.

A vary uncharacteristically _torturous_ exception.

And yet thoughts of Moriarty led to even more… hated ones, so John rarely thought about him.

Instead, he tried to forget.

He tried to forget running through London, taking shortcuts no one else knew. He tried to forget giggling at crime scenes. He tried to forget boredom and being disgusted at things in the fridge and feeling utterly irritated when there was no case on.

He tried to forget about yellow paint, pottery, _pink_. He tried to forget about ticking timers and scandals and hounds. He tried to forget about that painting, about fairytales with their villains, about breadcrumbs and chocolate and mind games he didn't understand and being a fugitive and falling -

God, why couldn't he just fucking forget?

Why couldn't he forget that coat? Those gloves? That violin? Those stupid, stupid cheekbones and God help him, that _voice_?

_Those ever-changing eyes?_

Every day had become a test of survival, because John wasn't living anymore. He was surviving.

He had tried to lose himself in various ways. Drinking, sleeping with anyone who was willing (men or women, he wasn't picky), even … recreation.

But never cocaine, never cigarettes.

Either way, it had all come to nothing because _nothing worked_. Drinking left him feeling sick because he was just mirroring his sister. After the fifth, he had stopped picking up anyone at the bar. It had felt so wrong in so many ways. And those damn drugs went against all his morals as a doctor and as a somewhat faithful Christian.

When John was serving in the army, he had this dark place in his mind where he would go to block out the maelstrom of gunfire and screams and death all around him when it threatened to overwhelm him. He would tune out his emotions and focus only on the facts and medical knowledge that he needed in order to be of assistance. It helped him concentrate, helped him help the wounded. So it really hadn't come as a surprise, in the end, that when the whole world turned into a battlefield worse than those he'd seen in Afghanistan, he retreated into that dark place and thought only about helping those in need of healing. Working at St Ann's was what he had to do. Sometimes he would spend all day there, not eating, not sleeping except a fitful half hour nap (being a doctor, he knew complete lack of sleep would be counter-productive), just helping anyone he could with his caring hands, calming demeanour, and a soothing voice. The rest of the workers had caught up with him a fair few times to tell him that he'd done enough for the day, he was such a determined worker, an angel, but it was time to go home now, he could go home and rest - but they didn't understand. Working was the only way he _could_ rest. The only way he could stay in the dark place, and therefore the only way he could find some modicum of peace. It was the only way he could stop himself either going mad or breaking completely from the constant fire, the maelstrom of memories and screams and death that never seemed to stop outside that hospital. It was the only way he could fight getting slashed open over and over and over again and the only way to survive the ever-present hatred.

_Survive. Why bother surviving when there's nothing left to survive for?_

But such thoughts were always left behind when he retreated into the dark place. He had decided either consciously or subconsciously to continue his work as a doctor as there always had seemed to be some merit in saving others. Saving lives of strangers. Saving lives to sustain his own existence.

_Surviving. When was it going to get easier?_

Maybe he was just trying to compensate for the one life he couldn't save.

John was a soldier. John was a doctor. John was an exArmy doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and he would bloody do what he'd always done - soldier on.

But it really was inevitable that one day his resolve crashed and burned.


	2. Puzzling

_Your eyes like a shot of whiskey,_  
 _warms me up like a summer night._  
 _Can you tell that I need ya with me?_  
 _Let me drink you down tonight._

\---

For three years, Sherlock struggled to remember.

He never did realise he was doing it, though.

Taking down Moriarty's network had been challenging. Not impossible, but definitely time-consuming. He wasn't bored, which was wonderful. He'd never been so wonderfully, blissfully occupied like this. There was always a case, someone to take out, some lead to follow up on. He wasn't happy exactly, not really, but he was busy and all he had time to care about was the work.

He'd never been so complete and so … hollow all at once. And this confused him - emotions were ridiculous and disconcerting. The work was all that mattered, and everything else was just transport; thus, he ignored that odd hollow in chest. He was not bored, and he'd never felt so alive. There was finally an intricate puzzle worthy of his intellect. His mind was constantly humming with the pleasure of the task he'd set himself - taking down the spider's web.

But that hollow… Something _hurt_.

Leaping from country to country, street to street, the occasional hotel to hotel to refuel his body with a couple hours' sleep and perhaps a sandwich, maybe some tea… _but why did drinking tea hurt-_

_Delete that._

… and eliminating the opposition one individual at a time was how Sherlock spent those three years. Sherlock knew that there was no way he'd ever catch out everyone by himself - it would be much more efficient to have a team of those idiotic police officers at hand since they had the resources and the numbers. They could do the bulk of the job whilst Sherlock was figuring out who, where, and when the next member of the extensive web was and would be in a certain location. But he couldn't do that - couldn't risk being recognized by anyone, friend or foe. If word got out that it was he, Sherlock Holmes, who was taking down Moriarty's network, chaos would ensue and all hope of finding anyone at a desirable rate would be lost as they all went underground. Instead of getting the police directly involved, he worked alone. Word evidently hadn't gotten around that Moriarty was dead, but there had been no reports going through the database Sherlock had hacked in to that suggested they suspected something was wrong. It seemed they had dismissed Sherlock as dead. Case closed.

Great advantage for Sherlock.

No one seemed to notice the higher ranking members were being taken out, for it seemed that each employee was contacted in confidentiality if and only if their services were required, or there was an update on a current objective. Never at any other time. Thus, to Sherlock's glee, everyone on the spider's side had been lulled into a false sense of security. Again, this was one advantage he wouldn't dare let go to waste.

Although he loved the little challenge of the puzzle, he couldn't help but feel a buzz during the chase. Once he found one, he would tie them up, gag them, place a note next to them and call up the local police leaving anonymous tips from public phones of the bastard's whereabouts. Any serious injuries that particular individual sustained during the scuffle and questioning for information were nothing but coincidental in Sherlock's eyes, and way less than they deserved.

Either way, they dropped off the radar as soon as the police had them in custody. There were never any trials, headlining court cases or anything of the sort. Of course, Sherlock knew this was the work of the British Government. Sherlock took great satisfaction in knowing the criminals would probably never see the light of day again. No doubt Mycroft would have used certain methods in order to glean information from each offender before they met their fate, but there was no success as far as Sherlock could see since he was the one doing most of the tracking. Mycroft did tend to be one step behind his younger brother on most occasions, although the smug bastard liked to pretend otherwise.

No one aside from Molly knew he was alive. Well it was certainly a possibility that Mycroft knew, but he'd been extra careful to cover his tracks, so chances were he did not. Having a coat and scarf like his certainly did have it's benefits back when he was alive - they were a great way to hide from CCTV cameras. When you were Sherlock Holmes, hiding from the British Government wasn't as tricky as you would think, as long as you kept on your toes. But in order for him to completely conceal himself from big brother, indeed anyone linked to the police, he had been forced to relinquish his signature clothes to Molly and don entirely different outfits - jeans, boots, baggy jumpers. He'd cut his hair, worn contacts and made other slight facial adjustments as well.

He'd been clever, probably cleverer than he'd ever been, when he had jumped off St Bart's rooftop that day. Molly had been perfect in helping him, but he was taking a huge risk in letting her in on his secret. This was _Molly_ , after all - never quite able to control what comes out of her mouth. Then again, he had figured she would be the least likely person to be singled out in the first place. They had not exactly seemed like friends before he had 'died', so chances were no one suspected that she knew something about Sherlock. Even if she acted a bit off, they would probably put it down to regular Molly-like behaviour. This was assuming that someone smelt something fishy and was digging, of course. He had put on quite a show, even if he did say so himself, so that in itself was unlikely.

All in all, everything was quite wonderful in this new life of his. Except for that one small thing - that nagging, insistent _hollow_ in his chest that made no sense. Once early in the second year, in a lull in the influx of leads and data, the pain had inflated to the point where he had found it downright irritating. So he had pulled out his * _ahem*_ borrowed laptop and looked it up on the internet, but to his utter disgust it had only turned up results related to depression. Sherlock knew he did not have _depression_. The very idea was preposterous. Worse still, the usually enlightening resource had spat at him to eat ice-cream, chocolate and other such confectionery to ease his suffering. It was that or see a psychologist, which of course he would never do even if he could, because he knew quite well that the sites were _wrong_. Even if he didn't know what he had, he knew full well what he did not.

Feeling a bit put out that dismal night, he had realised that he had more than one puzzle to solve.


	3. Trickling

_We were on fire_   
_Now we're frozen_   
_There's no desire_   
_Nothing spoken_   
_You're just playing_   
_I keep waiting for your heart_

\---

John hated everyone.

He hated Lestrade for not believing. He hated Mycroft for his idiotic behaviour, his betrayal. He hated Molly because she felt sorry for him.

And, quite fairly, Sally and Anderson for being twats.

He … didn't think he could ever hate Mrs Hudson. But he hadn't contacted her in three years, and that probably said something, right?

He hated Ella and Harry, both for the same reason - because their presence caused him to remember, which was counter-productive to his objective.

He hated Sarah and all his previous girlfriends and his one-night-stands-that-weren't-quite because being with them felt wrong - both because it felt like he was trying to live a life he didn't have anymore, and because it wasn't fair to them. They deserved someone who could love them back. John knew full well that he couldn't love anyone completely right now, and he wouldn't for a long while, if ever again.

It sounded so tragic and theatrical but it was what he felt, deep in his being.

But by God, most of all he hated _him_.

He hated him for crashing into his life like a ruddy derailed train. His cold and arrogant personality, his stupid deductions, his 'massive intellect'. The way he had never seemed to look like a man who hardly slept, hardly ate, but was - how had he done that anyway? He hated the way he seemed so apathetic, so callous, with no care for the emotions of others. The way he would act in front of others - yell at or cry in front of suspects or witnesses just to get information, the way he would show-off, had no sense of boundaries. And while he was on the topic of faces, he hated his face too. Damn his cheekbones. And his hair. God he hated his stupid, black, unruly hair. He just hated him.

But most of all, John hated that he had done nothing to stop him, that he'd seen it happen.

That the bastard had left him with no real reason why; just some crap about how it was all lie. And John knew it wasn't a lie, and no one would ever convince him otherwise.

What he really hated, though, was the fact that he didn't. He didn't hate the stupid git at all, and he never had. But he wished he did because it would make everything so much easier. He had left John. How could he be so _selfish_?

When John was in the army, he'd lost a few friends to the war. Being in the heat of the moment, with the atmosphere of the battle in the air regardless of whether he was at basecamp or on the battlefield, it had always been a matter of bottling up those gut-wrenching emotions and leaving them behind to go to his dark place. It had come as somewhat of a shock that losing _him_ had ended up being a worse occurrence than anything before, worse than anything imaginable, worse than his time in service.

But John supposed he hadn't had a bond with any of those soldiers anything like the one he had with Sherlock.

He'd never discussed the deaths of his fellow soldiers with Ella, so his coping mechanism had never come up before. Come to think of it, he hadn't really opened up much to Ella at all. They had talked about how he was holding up, how his leg was, everything basic, but they'd hardly scratched the surface of the iceberg that was John's inner turmoil. John had simply not let Ella in – didn't trust her enough to let her in. This was why John decided to read up on it himself – dealing with the death of someone close to you. So here he was, alone in his bedsit looking up the Five Stages of Grief at one in the morning on the third anniversary of the day his heart crumbled to dust.

Wonderful resource, the internet. Much easier than dealing with actual people. According to Wikipedia, the stages of death were, chronologically: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Looking at it objectively, John figured he had surpassed Denial relatively quickly. It would have been hard not to, considering. Anger on the other hand had proved to be quite a difficult stage to get through; it had definitely occupied the majority of these three years. A blind, ugly rage at everything and everyone that all but threatened to consume him like nothing else… The only thing that had seemed to be keeping John together was his anger. He knew on some subliminal level that his sanity was quite literally hanging by a thread and if he did away with this anger, something terrible would happen. Something not good.

The problem in all of this was these were not normal circumstances, this was not just the death of his very best friend.

For starters, this was _Sherlock_. Unfeeling, unemotional Sherlock, who had jumped to his death off that detested building all those years ago. He was practically in tears when he had committed suicide… God, it just didn't make any sense for him to commit as a result of everyone thinking he was a fraud. John knew he'd been through worse, what with the coke and the name-calling and the obviously lonely childhood. But being called a fraud had sent him over the edge? And telling John that he should believe it too?

John knew he _wasn't_. So what... Was that not enough for him?

Secondly, the git was not allowed to just _leave him like this_. A couple of days, fine. But permanently? No, just… _No._ Why would he anyway, why would he leave the one person who would put up with him day in and day out?

And so the problem remained - why had the bastard jumped? Why had he told him those lies on the phone before taking the fall? The Sherlock John had known would have defeated Moriarty. He would have found some way to catch him out at the very least, kill him at most, for everything he had put them both through. Instead here John was, all alone, confused because Sherlock had gone and done _this_ instead of being the hero John had known him to be, instead of saving everyone, most of all _himself_. And so in the early days, John had come to the conclusion that no, this most definitely was not right, Sherlock wouldn't just kill himself, he'd done it with some ulterior motive. Had to be a trick. Just a magic trick, designed to take him off the radar of the whole of Britain and beyond and _John_ for some reason John hadn't come up with yet.

This small strand of hope had nestled deep in his chest, enveloped in his anger and determination to forget, nurtured, reassured by the promise of Sherlock turning up at his door in all his glory one day, declaring in that grandiose manner he had that he was back in business now, that Moriarty was dead, and it was time for them both to go home to Baker Street.

The days had trickled by.

John had most definitely tried bargaining. He had prayed and prayed and prayed to God to change it, just go back and take his life instead of Sherlock's. _The world misses it's only consulting detective, prowling the streets of London, protecting the innocent and retaining the guilty, even if it doesn't know it. I'm nothing but a simple doctor; I heal, I don't prevent. What good am I? What is my worth when compared with that of a genius such as him? London isn't the same, isn't as safe, without him_.

Nothing had made any difference, no matter how he worded the request. And so, with each passing day, this small tendril of hope seemed to diminish in luminosity. Time was the catalyst and eventually, perhaps when seeing a blue scarf through a shop window in passing on that third anniversary, the crumbled remains of the pain in his chest all but gave out. All that was left was a black, swirling muck of devastation and grief. _The fourth stage. Depression_ , John mused offhandedly, now in his chair with laptop open on that sodding page. The sodding page that told him by ways of subtext that this was normal.

John hated normal. This wasn't, not for him.

They say it gets better with time, but how wrong they were. The memories John tried so hard to forget would resurface at the slightest trigger – yellow flowers, a pink hat, even the bloody green trees in Regent's Park resonated with images of lost treasure…

It was ridiculous. How could he live in a world where everything caused him to remember the one life he wanted to forget?

_If you can't fight 'em, join 'em._

It can't be said that John didn't try, because he did. He tried every day for thirty-six fucking months and he'd had enough.

John hated everyone. But now, stuck in this hell, John was starting not to feel anything at all.


	4. Accepting

_Who are you? You're looking like a stranger_

_You were once my love and my saviour_

_And I can't sleep, the pills they never helped_   
_Tried counting sheep, still hurts like hell_   
_I can't believe this rose has lost its red_   
_And its petals_

\---

_June, 2015_

John still had quite a strong moral compass dictating what was right and what was wrong, but this didn't change the fact that it was unbearable, that it was just too much… God hadn't done a thing. God had saved the wrong person, and was refusing to fix his mistake.

John was sickened because he was well and truly living a life he didn't want. He was living a life he would more than willingly give to a certain someone, but said someone obviously didn't want it because here he was in a world that didn't quite look right, or feel right, or function right, instead of someplace alive and dangerous and _good_. John knew there was something off about the world, and his doctor's brain finally came to a diagnosis: mother earth was terminally ill. The immune system was gone, its existence spiralling downwards into obliteration. And nothing lasted long without its immune system.

He had lost more than one kind of faith that day, the day his heart disintegrated. It came as no surprise that he realised he didn't care if he went to hell for doing it, if there were such places to begin with…

Long after the blackening of what was left of his heart, John decided to end this. The benefits of being a respected (John scoffed at himself) exArmy doctor included the ability to mislead chemists into thinking you actually have an innocent motive for buying so many sleeping pills. Probably helping a patient. Maybe he was selflessly popping out to get them for a friend, colleague, homeless person who needed them? He'd been in a daze, paying for them at eleven that night, smiling at the checkout lady without it reaching his eyes. It was just like one of those hypnotic experiences you hear about, where you're conscious of what you're doing but don't seem to have much control over it. He felt numb – it was almost as if he was already gone.

_What am I saying, I was gone the moment he started to fall._

He was in his flat, not quite remembering how he got there. There were bottles of alcohol in the fridge – he made sure he was always stocked, for emergencies. Such drinks had been his backup plan if the surgery hadn't rostered him on, or the maelstrom grew far too chaotic, but he wasn't completely dependent. It was just another, perhaps less effective, way to dull the pain.

He hadn't had tea in a long while.

Taking out three bottles of the sanctuary liquid, John sank into the couch to watch some crap telly, a final tribute, if you will. It was all re-runs. He didn't care. Before long he was singing along tunelessly, not noticing or caring when he heard insistent, intermittent knocks on the door yelling for him to shut up.

Sometime around one, after a fair amount of fumbling with the remote, the TV was switched off and he made his way to the bathroom, pills in hand, beer bottles empty shells tossed to the floor.

Calmly, smoothly, quite unlike what was expected of a wasted individual, John shut the bathroom door and locked it (habit, you understand). He filled the tub with scalding hot water, stripped, and sank into the last bath he would ever have.

When he was done with the soaking, he stood, dried himself off and went to his room to dress. He was in his best clothes: the black, mended jacket, a few sweatshirts, a clean pair of dark denim jeans, warm socks, and his best pair of leather shoes. _Might as well look good for the execution._ He took one quick look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair was greying at an increasing rate – it was more silver than a dirty gold-brown now. He looked older; a dozen more wrinkles had embedded themselves on his face, adding ten years to his appearance. He had dark lines under his eyes, but worse than anything, John could see no light in his own eyes. No spark of the old John, no life whatsoever. That was worse than the weight he'd lost, worse even than the dry, ashen, slightly flaky skin.

_I'm a walking corpse. How fitting._

He pocketed the sleeping pills, grabbed his cane and left.

He was walking through a grimy part of London. Moonlit alleyways, people that looked like shadows, shadows that looked like people, drifting past. It was all an insignificant blur. John focussed on his feet, on walking, hands buried in his pockets, fingering the small bottle.

 _One-two, one-two._ A final mantra, a march to the endgame.

 _There's no shame in going like this,_ John assured himself. _Even if there is a heaven, I won't go if he's not there. That would be utterly pointless. I'll follow him just like I always have because the idiot needs me just as much as I need him._

_And if this plan doesn't work, there's always the pills. I'll do whatever it takes to find him, even if I have to go to hell for it._

"Oi, you!"

John closed his eyes, stopped walking. The mantra ended. There was only strained quiet before the storm now. It was time.

How fitting, yet again, that he had found silence once more – however brief it may be – before taking his leave.

John slowly turned – better to face his death, and noticed that the shadow wasn't even addressing him. He was glaring at a skinny, filthy homeless girl, backed up against a building wall. Speaking words John couldn't hear from where he was, demanding something she didn't want to give.

John strode towards the scene.

He couldn't help thinking how perfectly this had turned out. Soon the good doctor would save someone else, a final act of charity, a fitting outro to his existence. If this ended the way he desired, he would go out a hero. John smiled at the poetry of it all.

"Leave her alone," his voice rang out calm and clear through the still night air.

The shadow looked up, and although John couldn't see a face, he could practically feel the disbelief emanating from the dark form.

"You heard me," John spoke up again, sounding like the soldier he once was.

The figure snorted, "And if I don't? What're you gon' do? Throw a tantrum? Hit me with your walking stick?" he laughed raucously.

John glanced at the girl. She had dirty blonde hair, washed-out skin, and sunny-sky eyes. She had the air of someone who was fighting to survive, but was having trouble doing so. She reminded him of his sister. Her blue orbs were wide, staring at him, and he saw a flicker of hope flash in them. His resolve solidified. He wasn't just doing this for his own selfish purposes now.

It was John who threw the first punch.

The girl wasted no time – once her would-be attacker was distracted, she scrambled away and ran for all she was worth. Perhaps John heard a whispered 'thank you', but he couldn't be sure. His focus was on the cretin before him.

He was around six foot, medium build, probably stronger than he looked. His clothes were well worn but in fair condition for someone slumming it on the streets. He straightened up, nursing his dislocated jaw, sizing up his irritating, _puny_ opponent.

John's heart kicked into gear as he waited. The adrenaline now coursing through his veins like a drug steadied his hand, his limp, his whole body. John couldn't help it when his trained doctor's eye focussed on the critical points of the human body in preparation. _Survival instinct_ , John rolled his eyes in his own mind, _useless_.

Thoughts raced through his head in those strenuous moments before the end.

John had always seen caring as an advantage. He'd always believed that it made life more fulfilling, made you more human, that it made you a better person when you cared about someone else. But he knew the truth now. He'd seen it for himself a million times out on the battlefield, so why had he not taken any notice? God, he was so naïve. Caring _hurt_ people. People betrayed and broke each other because they cared about each other or about trivial events that hurt them or those they loved. Even care for tangible goods or money hurt others. Caring forced others to do things for their own selfish gain – and why did that work? Because caring was a trait of the losing side. Because caring, because _emotions_ were an excellent motivator. _Sentiment._ It always came down to sentiment. Emotions were a chemical defect, and this was the final proof. John understood everything now.

People killed each other because they cared.

And people killed themselves because they cared.

John really was only following the natural order of things. Nothing is ever new. No, caring was most definitely a dangerous disadvantage. He was beyond caring about it all now, though, and he felt strangely serene as the shadow approached him with murderous intent.

John had finally come to the final stage of grief. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, John's everything and best friend, was dead.

It was about time he _accepted_ it and did something about it.

But then the sharp _crack_ of a shot splintered through the thin air, and everything went to hell.


	5. Miscalculating

_Come feel my heart_  
 _It's beating like a drum and I confess_  
 _When you're around_  
 _It's like an army's marching through my chest_

\---

Sherlock realised sometime through the third year that whenever he remembered John, it inexplicably made the odd 'hollow' seem less of a void.

He had been lying on a couch in some random hotel in Paris, running his hands through his unruly, now longer, hair furiously as he tried to _think_. It was absurd. Why would remembering John ease the pain slightly? It was a puzzle, something new and something different, that needed to be taken apart and scrutinized until the answer's pieces came together through observation. It was right up Sherlock's street.

Facts and theories and deductions flashed before his closed eyes in white sans serif letters. First, the relevant facts:

_Known him for approx. 18 months._

_ExArmy doctor - useful to a consulting detective._

_Had a limp before he met me._

_Saved each other's lives countless times._

_Flatmate, blogger, and colleague._

Sherlock paused, frowning.

_Flatmate, blogger, colleague, and friend._

_Usually takes no sugar or cream, but occasionally does if not to enjoy but for the luxury of it._

_Has a tendency to wear all things woollen, granny-like or otherwise._

_Stupid, straight-forward, doesn't make connections, yet his input proves useful at times. Idiot – but not always. More than can be said about anyone else._

_Good with people – beneficial. Soothes Lestrade and the rest when they're being especially ignorant. Premises: pleasing looks, genuine smile, charming personality._

With these facts lingering in the background, Sherlock added another layer and took the analysis a step further:

_Willing to work with me._

Pause.

_Enjoys my company._

_Not nearly as irritating as the rest of the world's population. (Premise: Not always an idiot.)_

_Compliments where others scorn._

_Grateful to me for fixing his limp and for splitting the rent with him – both of which I find satisfactory._

_Would lay his life down for me…_

Sherlock huffed out an exasperated breath at the evident impasse. This was getting him _nowhere_. None of these facts explained why John eased the insistent itch in his chest that had nothing to do with the influx of data and information he experienced on a daily basis. That pain was only in his head, whereas this new pain, this _uglyabsurdludicrous_ pain threatened to rupture and spread like an infection through his entire body and render him incapacitated like nothing before. Sherlock found the thought quite unnerving.

He needed to find a cause.

He'd tried thinking about Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Donovan and Anderson and Mycroft as a test, to see if this feeling was simply the result of the absence of people he encountered regularly, to see if that was the variable that would explain the hurt… but no one apart from John seemed to abate the intensity of the storm in his chest. (And God help him, John must be continuing to rub off on him because he was _Sherlock Holmes_ and yet he was _thinking in bloody metaphors like a melodramatic journalist for God's sake. When the hell had this happened?_ )

Why _John_ , specifically?

Sherlock's stomach had screamed abuse at him for the fifth time that day, interrupting his circular thoughts. It really was quite adamant… but he had more pressing matters at hand. After all, there were worse aches and pains than hunger. Besides, hunger kept him sharp and wired, helped him focus, kept his brain powering on at the speed of sound. ( _Metaphors again? Really?_ ) Hunger was good. Digesting made him feel heavy and sluggish, which did nothing to help with the brain rot.

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl that echoed through the room.

He thought about those approximately-eighteen months he had spent with John. It was time to do what he had always done with any case that didn't immediately pose an obvious solution to him – go over everything again until it did. Observe something he missed before, make a connection that hadn't been made. In his mind, he entered his palace and flipped a laptop open, shifted into a more comfortable position and proceeded to remember, to pore over every moment of those eighteen months in which he shared a flat at 221B Baker Street with a good exArmy doctor named John Watson.

***

He was an idiot.

And it took him way too long to realise his error.

Sherlock had finished his hunting in Paris, and was on his way back to London, returning at last. Returning home, to 221B, to Baker Street, and to John.

_If he would have me back._

Sherlock irritably swiped that nonsensical thought away. Of course John would have him. Why wouldn't he? Their skills complemented each other's, they were _friends_ , they were able to afford quite a pricy residence in central London together. There was an extensive index of reasons corroborating his argument. Sure, there had been this trivial (oh, but most definitely _not boring_ ) set-back in their lives together, but that was irrelevant. It's not as if Sherlock hadn't done this before. He'd dashed off, for days at a time to solve a case without John. The length of time was irrelevant; of course it was. John would be hurt that he'd been left behind, but he always got over it. He would lecture Sherlock – it was arrogant and selfish of him to go off on his own and just what did he think he was doing, what if he had needed someone to cover his back and no one was up for the job at the time and why did he always need to prove he was clever _by himself_? Sherlock would pretend to listen to everything and when John was done, Sherlock would boast and John would call him brilliant and they might order Chinese or Italian and then maybe John would update his blog while Sherlock maybe watched crap telly or experimented and then they would call it a night.

Sherlock looked forward to it.

Every last key member of Moriarty's fanclub (or was it Sherlock's fanclub? They were practically one and the same) was neutralised. One of the best cases Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of solving was closed, for good this time. All that left him with now was the ongoing mystery of the _irksome_ hole in his chest. Sherlock had gone over those eighteen months again and again and again in his head, but to no avail.

It made Sherlock all the more determined to find the answer.

And it was during one of these re-run sessions, in the taxi on his way to John's new residence, that Sherlock received the text.

The text that caused his heart to halt for a second.

It wasn't logical, but Sherlock swore it did, it physically _stopped_ , when he read those words on the tiny luminescent screen of his Blackberry.

_No. No, it can't be._

The thought that John… rock-solid (oh he gave _up_ ), dependable, exArmy doctor John would just… do this … had never occurred to him. Sherlock wasn't just a sociopath, he was a high-functioning sociopath. He knew people, he knew how they worked, he knew their reactions to stimuli, he knew how to make deductions from these observations. It was his speciality, his certifiable profession. He knew how people _worked_. He should know how _John_ worked

Except John wasn't people, was he?

_Idiot._

From day one, John had intrigued him. _That was amazing_ , he had said. Not _Piss off_ or _You arse_ or _It's none of your sodding business._

Sherlock felt the start of something hot and fiery and vile claw its way up his throat. He was startled to realise that this feeling was … anger. He was furious.

For God's sake.

But how _dare_ he …

What was he _thinking_ …

What _possessed_ him to …

All of Mycroft's cavalry and men couldn't have broken him, scrambled his thoughts with whatever form of torture they wished, but John had done it without even residing in the same postal area as him.

But no, there had to be some mistake. His source was wrong; had to be. John was not allowed to do this. He had no right. He was still his colleague, his assistant. There was no contract but they had a deal. A premeditated partnership that worked wonders for the city of London. Their relationship was symbiotic. Why would he for one second think he could just-

Sherlock snapped at the cabbie, "Hurry up would you?" His hands fiddled with his phone and his legs itched to just _run_ the rest of the way to John.

Sherlock missed the look the cabbie shot him. 

His mind was already elsewhere, precisely five and a half kilometres away, near a darkened alley teeming with shadows.

***

When Sherlock broke into John's little flat, he knew immediately John was not there. His infuriating mind picked up on very single useless detail.

_Every item of furniture shows signs of slight disrepair. John would not treat his meagre belongings without care. Fine layers of dust. Conclusion: second-hand, but hardly used. Inference: spends most of his time, day and night, out of the flat. Hardly any indulgences, aside from the telly. Hardly any decorations. Conclusion: minimal to zero entertaining. Small desktop: laptop open - history – 'The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson,' 'Email,' … 'Five Stages of Grief'. Researching instead of seeing anyone – has not and does not discuss death of fallen comrades with therapist. Still hasn't fired Ella, or is seeing another therapist he doesn't trust. Unpacked boxes of belongings, again with no customization of residence leads to conclusion: not thinking ahead. Depressed? Living on his own once again suggests that he and Harry aren't on the best of terms – so little to no Harry in his life. Three empty beer bottles. Remote on feeble excuse for couch, angled away from telly – thrown back at the couch while facing away, not caring to put it down properly. Had something on his mind …_

It only took a matter of seconds for Sherlock to glean this information, and more. It was like an endless stream of _useless_ , God! _Where is John I need to find John don't do anything immensely stupid John._

It irritated him that he took longer than what was optimal to find what was the equivalent of the signs of someone going into cardiac arrest.

It was receipt, lying there innocuously on the floor, from an insignificant chemist a few blocks away.

For sleeping pills.

Sherlock knew from the sight of the bed – _made, sheets clean but stale, not washed in almost six months_ – that John had hardly ever slept properly, in his bed, not for a long while. He had therefore taken brief naps on the couch, or elsewhere ( _At work, most likely. Looking at his history of professions, and buildings nearby, a hospital seems the best estimate. St Ann's, probably. He needed to earn money to pay the rent, if not for food, from somewhere._ ) when it was necessary in order to stay conscious. When John needed to sleep, he had managed to do so all on his own, however restlessly or briefly. Thus, there would be no need for the sleeping pills prior. Which begged the question, why now? Where was John now, and where were the pills? Obviously not in the flat. Made no sense for someone to take sleeping pills if they were not intending to sleep in their own bed.

Unless…

The initial curling of bile in the back of his throat returned. Sherlock gulped hard against it. _No. NO._

But again, _why had he left?_ Why not take the pills here and be done with it?

Oh. Of course.

John was an honourable, dubiously religious yet medical man. Taking his own life would be contradictory to his beliefs. However far gone he was, he would only do himself harm as a final resort. The pills were his back-up plan, which in turn raised the question, _what was Plan A? How could John do it, without raising his own gun to his head… ?_

Oh.

_Stupid, stupid!_

Sherlock felt his blood run cold.

 _Interesting_ , a single thought process grated at the rest of him, _file reaction away for later analysis_. The other disrupted bits of him were consumed in, for the moment, paralysing emotion.

He had been shocked upon receiving that text, no use denying that. But this was Sherlock: he had needed to assess the scene for himself, to gain all significant data, to draw his own conclusions from the raw facts. His shock might have – probably, most likely – had something to do with the fact that Sherlock hadn't considered this a possibility. This was John, and Sherlock could not understand what had driven _John_ , reliable, wonderful, John to even consider this because _this was not how John would react to immeasurable tedium it just DID NOT COMPUTE._

Sherlock whirled out of the flat, down the one flight of stairs, and out the door – the resounding echo of John's flat door crashing shut was like a final note of a sonata, one last word said down a phone line…

For once in his life, Sherlock wished he miscalculated the evidence.


End file.
